Pygmalion
by goblynn
Summary: A very brief look at the final scenes of the finale.


He looked at her—the red-rimmed eyes brimming with tears—and the sight confirmed what his instincts told him. She was Marilyn—she was a star. Or would be, once he was done with her.

She was broken. Her life was in pieces.

He would remake her.

Stars aren't born, after all. They're _made_.

He rose to his feet. She looked up, silent, and he held out one hand. She took it, letting him pull her up beside him. Her eyes held a question. He quirked a small smile.

"Come on…let's get you ready." He drew her close, her hand still in his grasp, and led her to the racks. With no forethought, he pulled free the purple dress (the dream dress, the dress that haunted him) and held it up.

She shook her head. "I can't, Derek."

He dropped her hand, sliding his up her arm. "Yes, you _can_. You will." His hand rose further, slipping lightly over her shoulder and resting, briefly, at her cheek. "You're my Marilyn."

He could see her eyes widen a fraction, and he pushed his fingertips into her hair, combing through the lengths before stepping back. The rise and fall of her chest had quickened, her mouth open in a tiny 'o' of surprise.

He went down on one knee, gathered the dress in his hands, and looked up. "Come on, darling."

She nodded, dropping a hand on his shoulder to balance herself, watching as he slipped the dress over her legs and up her body. His hands ghosted over her, resting at her hips before turning her around and zipping up the back.

Just as his hands fell away, she spun to face him.

"Derek—"

"Don't doubt yourself."

"But—"

"Karen." His voice was unexpectedly soft. She faltered. "You can do this."

Her eyes were still wary.

He turned away, getting her pumps from their bin, and crouched again. He wrapped his fingers around her ankle, feeling her hand rest lightly on his shoulder. Slipping on one shoe, and reaching for the other, he spoke. "He hurt you. That won't change. What happens next is up to you."

A brief silence, then—"You really think I can do this?"

He stood. "I chose you, didn't I?"

"But Eileen…I heard what she said."

"The hell with Eileen. You do this for me, you listen to _me_—and they'll see what you are."

She lifted her chin, something in her demeanor changed—her back straightened. "Okay."

He smiled. "Good. Follow me."

He led her through the backstage labyrinth, reclaiming her wig and leaving her to put it on. He walked onstage, shouting out instructions even before he'd come into view.

And there was Ivy. As Marilyn. And so full of excitement, and joy, and relief—

Her face fell.

Karen's voice, from behind him—"Sorry. I was a little upset about something."

He dared not look at Karen until Ivy had left the stage. She had become still, not a trace of sympathy in her eyes.

He had the feeling something was afoot.

Karen spoke—"Where do you want me?"—and he returned his focus to the work.

Hours later, he watched from the wings. She was dazzling…a perfect, utterly destructive combination of naïveté and sexuality. The audience adored her.

Then…Marilyn's death. As before, not a sound emanated from the seats. Absolute, terrifying silence. The lights came up again, on Michael—Joe DiMaggio—saying goodbye.

He moved to find her.

She was already dressed in gold, sliding on her bracelets and waiting to be zipped up. He motioned the assistant away; she stiffened when she felt him touch her. With the dress fastened, he slipped his hands around her, letting his fingers stroke along her waist.

He kept close, his voice soft with encouragement. "Whatever happens next, don't ever doubt…you're a star."

She didn't reply.

He took a breath and said something more—something that could be construed many ways (another one of his machinations? a confession?)—

"And I do understand love."

Her eyes fluttered half-shut—

And she walked onstage without a word.

He watched her, still, just beyond visibility. Her voice rang out, carrying bittersweet words of hope. He smiled—singing "Happy Birthday" to someone you love, indeed.

Then the lyrics shifted, and his smile faded.

Her anger was in those words. No, _he_ hadn't bought her. He'd brought her on, cast her in the ensemble, but he'd not bought her. He'd controlled her, just as her dolt of a boyfriend had—had tried, in any case—

But she was really quite magnificent.

And if a little control—or manipulation—evoked this amazing creature from a timid whelp of a girl?

He'd no problem with that.


End file.
